The Roses
by kazoquel4
Summary: Uncle Vernon is listening to the news one day when he learns there's a lunatic running around England chopping down people's plants, and he's coming to Little Whinging. What will Harry Potter do when he is witness to the murder of his aunt's roses? ONESHOT


Eight year-old Harry Potter sat in his cupboard, thinking about what his uncle had been saying earlier. After dinner, as he had been watching the news, a piece had come on about some man who was running around with gardening shears cutting down people's trees and flowers. He had made his way slowly across England and now appeared to be heading toward Little Whinging.

"Lunatic," Uncle Vernon had grunted. "Wholloping mad. He should be locked up, that one. Running around, chopping down people's gardens… not my garden! He wouldn't dare try anything with _my _garden!"

Harry had wondered vaguely how Uncle Vernon would stop the man from doing anything to his garden, but knew better than to voice his questions out loud, as asking questions was practically forbidden in his house.

"Oh, Vernon," Aunt Petunia had fretted nervously, "my roses, my prized roses, what if he should do anything to them? I've worked ever so hard, and if he comes to Privet Drive-"

"Don't worry, Petunia dear," said Uncle Vernon. "If he dares to even look at your beautiful roses, well I'll teach him a lesson, easy as that. He won't dare."

Somehow, that argument had reassured Harry's aunt, and they had both retired for the night. Harry's pig of a cousin, Dudley, had ambled around in the kitchen for a while more before waddling upstairs to his room, his already tremendous weight making large thumps on the roof of Harry's cupboard.

With nothing to do, Harry rolled over and stared at the small crack of light that streamed in under his cupboard. While it did nothing to light the dark space, it did bring a small bit of comfort to young Harry. He wished, once again, that he might be permitted to sleep in his cousin's second bedroom, even if only for one night, but he knew that that wish was quite impossible. Uncle Vernon believed very strongly that Harry was a freak, and that freaks like him shouldn't get bedrooms.

But Harry didn't think he was a freak, not really. He wasn't exactly sure what Uncle Vernon meant. Weird things did often happen around him, such as the time his dinner had exploded because his aunt had served green beans, his least favorite food. But that wasn't _his _fault. Did it really make him any different from his cousin?

His musings were interrupted by a sound from outside, a sort of rustling sound. Harry knew that he shouldn't leave his cupboard and tried to ignore it. But when it happened again, his eight year-old mind was sparked with curiosity and he slowly sat up.

Opening his cupboard door very slowly so as not to let it squeak, Harry peeked out into the moonlit hall. It was empty, except for the small table and vase sitting near the door. Harry was about to retreat and shut his door again when he heard the rustling noise a third time, this one much louder than the other's.

Harry quietly slipped out of his cupboard and into the hall. He glanced anxiously up at the ceiling to be sure he hadn't made any noise, as he would be in a lot of trouble if he woke his aunt, uncle, or cousin up. Luckily, there was no sounds from upstairs, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

Walking on tip-toe, the little boy creeped slowly across the long hall to the door waiting at the end. He had deduced that the sound was coming from outside, and he couldn't help but check.

_I'm protecting my family,_ thought Harry proudly. _I'm protecting them from anything that might be out there. I'm going to be brave, just like daddy was._

Of course, he hadn't been told that his dad was brave, but some part of him just… knew.

Carefully, he stood on his toes and reached for the lock, twisting it gently. He heard the door give a small click as it unlocked, and quietly pulled on the door knob.

The door opened, gliding silently on well-oiled hinges. Harry stood shivering in the doorway, wrapping his arms around him in defense of the cold air that was pouring in from the dark night. He peered anxiously out into the lawn, suddenly fearing what he might find.

A black figure was crouched on the lawn, a hood drawn up over his face, hiding his features. He didn't seem very big, but he was obviously not a child. As Harry watched, he drew a pair of huge gardening shears from a bag lying next to him. They glinted menacingly in the silvery moonlight.

Harry just stared as he watched the man bring the gardening shears down to Aunt' Petunia's prized roses and, with a neat little _snip_, cut one off. The rose fluttered to the ground, swaying slightly in the breeze, leaving a plain green stem behind.

Twice, three times more the figure cut the rose. _Snip, snip, snip_, went the shears, and all Harry could do was watch. It wasn't until he had reached the final three roses that Harry found his voice.

"What are you doing?" he whispered into the still night air, his knees shaking.

The figure looked sharply up, tensed, then seemed to relax when he realized it was just a little boy. He turned back to the bushes and hurriedly cut off the last few roses before tossing his shears back in the dark bag and throwing it over his shoulder, standing up.

"Wait!" said Harry, a little louder than before.

The figure, who had already turned and gotten ready to run, paused and looked quizzically back at Harry, almost daring him to go on.

"You cut all of my aunt's roses," Harry said.

The figure didn't move for a second before he nodded curtly.

"Why?" asked Harry, genuinely confused. Why would the man even bother to come here so late, just to cut down flowers in someone's garden? Little Harry couldn't wrap his mind around it.

The figure froze, staring at Harry. For a long time they stood like that, not speaking, but staring at each other. Harry couldn't see past the hood, but stared into the shadows where he knew the figure's eyes must be, hiding from sight.

The figure cocked his head, almost as if he was wondering the same thing as Harry. Then, a quiet, soft voice came from the shadowy folds of the hood.

"I don't know."

The voice was light and young, and didn't seem to fit the dark person standing before him.

Harry frowned deeply and opened his mouth to question him again, but the figure cut him off.

"I have to go, now. Goodbye, Harry."

Then he turned and sped off, into the street, down Privet Drive, and out of Harry's view.

For a few more moments Harry stood there, staring at the place where the strange visitor had disappeared. Then he saw his aunt's roses out of the corner of his eye and looked at the fallen flowers, horrified. If he was caught out here, _he _would be accused of cutting them!

Hurriedly, he slipped back inside, shut the door, and turned the lock again. Quietly, his snuck along the wooden floor back to his cupboard, which he entered as quietly as he could. After shutting the door firmly behind him, he laid back down, lost in thought about what he had just witnessed.

His last thought before he drifted into sleep was, _He called me by name…_

LINE BREAK

Harry was awoken by his aunt's shriek the next morning.

"VERNON! VERNON, COME QUICK! MY ROSES, OH, MY ROSES!"

There was a rumbling sound, and Uncle Vernon came bustling down the stairs, hurrying out the door after his wife. Harry peeked out of his cupboard, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

There were crying sounds from outside, while Uncle Vernon shouted.

"I DON'T BELIEVE IT! THE LUNATIC DARED TO COME AND CUT DOWN _MY _WIFE'S ROSES! I'LL GET HIM, I WILL!"

Harry was just about to shut the door again when his uncle shouted again.

"BOY! COME HERE!"

With a small sigh, Harry stepped out of his cupboard and walked toward the open door. He heard a laughing sound and saw Dudley on the stairs, snickering at him.

Harry ignored him and went outside, where his aunt and uncle were gathered. Aunt Petunia was on her knees, picking up roses and pressing them to the chopped stems as if they would magically repair themselves. Uncle Vernon was standing in front of Harry, his arms crossed.

"Well, boy?" he demanded. "Did you see anything last night?"

Harry thought for a second about what he had witnessed the previous night. The figure, dressed all in black; the roses, falling from their evenly cut stems, falling to the damp earth; the glinting shears, big and huge and scary-looking; the chill of the night air, the stars twinkling down on the garden in Little Whinging; and the figure's voice, the way he had called him Harry…

"No, Uncle Vernon," said Harry. "I didn't see anything.

**A/N: This idea just came to me today. It's completely pointless, but I just wanted to write it down. Well, there you go!**


End file.
